The Case Of The Sullen Watson
by JayEz
Summary: John is in an awful mood ever since a patient died on his table on Monday and Sherlock now faces the challenge of cheering him up. After all, that's what boyfriends do, isn't it? (aka 3,300 words of established relationship fluff and smut)


**The Case oft he Sullen Watson**

**Summary:** John is in an awful mood ever since a patient died on his table on Monday and Sherlock now faces the challenge of cheering him up. After all, that's what boyfriends do, isn't it?

**Author's Notes:** Prompt fill for obnoxiousarsehole from my tumblr giveaway.

Endless thanks to Iriya, who not only betaed this really quickly but also improved this story so much with her corrections!

Enjoy :)

PS: Either this is a post-S5-AU where John and Sherlock are finally together or a pre-S3-AU. Take your pick, but it's an established relationship fic sans baby...

xXx

**Wednesday – evening**

Sherlock's new case is proving more frustrating by every passing day.

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, taking in the notes and pictures on his bedroom wall. His bedroom, because John isn't allowed to see the mind map and ever since Sherlock began spending the little time he slept in John's bed, Sherlock's room has transformed into a storage facility for his experiments, papers, printouts and mail, or at least those that aren't still littering the rest of the flat. John never goes in there, which suits Sherlock just fine.

Now, the case - maybe the most complex of his career.

It all started on Monday, when John came home from a night shift at the hospital. Upon entering 221B, Sherlock could tell it had been a bad night – the set of John's jaw, hard lines around his eyes. Best guess: John lost a patient, which never fails to turn the doctor into a frustrated mess for a bit, much to Sherlock's confusion since doctors aren't miracle workers. People die.

The first time Sherlock pointed that out in the aftermath of one of John's shifts, his boyfriend hadn't talked to him for two days. Sherlock learnt his lesson.

So, instead of putting what happened into perspective for John, Sherlock shot a quick text at Lestrade.

_Need a case, John's in a bad mood. – SH_

_Why does that mean you need a case? – GL_

_Because I need a reason to go out. – SH_

The reply is almost instant.

_No, Sherlock, you're together now. It's your job to cheer him up. – GL_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the screen. Really? Well, maybe Sherlock recalled a social convention of the like.

That Monday morning, Sherlock tried the first thing that came to mind: sex. John liked sex, sex would cheer him up.

So Sherlock walked up behind John where he was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper, and pressed his chest to John's back, trailing kisses down the exposed skin of his throat.

"Sherlock."

"Hm?" he hummed, sucking at John's neck. Strangely, his pulse didn't pick up.

"I'm not in the mood."

Unperturbed, Sherlock continued until a strong hand pushed him off.

"I'm serious," John snapped, causing Sherlock's quick retreat into the living room.

Which was when Sherlock started the case file on his wall. Now it is Wednesday and his options are dwindling.

In the middle, there is a picture of John in the Baker Street living room, which Sherlock doesn't recall being taken. Judging from the angle and the composition, he would guess Molly took it.

Several arrows lead from John's picture to words and phrases, things Sherlock is sure that his partner likes.

"Sex", "tea" and "food" are all crossed out already, as is "go for a pint with Gavin", since all those options failed to yield the desired results.

xXx

**Tuesday - evening**

Sherlock stretches on the sofa, casting a glance at John who is glaring at his laptop as if it has personally wronged him.

"How about some tea?" Sherlock asks, poised to rise as soon as John answers in the affirmative.

What Sherlock doesn't expect is for the doctor to sigh, shove the laptop onto the coffee table and push himself up from the armchair, walking to the kitchen.

Granted, Sherlock never makes tea himself. So the misunderstanding is understandable. Maybe Sherlock miscalculated.

Moving on.

"We should order in today," Sherlock suggests but it merely elicits a noncommittal grunt in response, so he rolls off the sofa and picks up his phone from the mantelpiece. "Let's do Italian. What are you in the mood for?"

When Sherlock looks up from his screen, he finds his boyfriend staring at him with wide eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Ordering food."

"But why are you calling?"

"You're making tea."

"That never stopped you before."

"Just tell me what you want." Sherlock sighs. This is frustrating.

John contemplates him for a moment, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The usual." Then he sits down, placing two cups of tea on the table and grabbing his laptop again.

xXx

**Wednesday – morning**

When John's foul mood persists well through Tuesday night, Sherlock is at a loss until he realises that it is Wednesday.

"So you're going for a pint with Gavin tonight?" Sherlock asks while stealing a piece of toast from John's plate.

"It's Greg and you know it. But he's got a case, can't make tonight."

"Why don't I know about this?"

"Said the case is too boring for you. Just a four. Maybe even a three."

Sherlock grumbles, thinking back to the notes on his bedroom wall.

"Then let's watch something tonight. You've been nagging me about another Bond night, let's do that."

John pauses, tea mug raised half-way to his lips. "What did you do?"

Sherlock raises a quizzical eyebrow.

"You'd never volunteer for that unless you're feeling guilty. What is it? Is there going to be another severed head in the fridge when I get home tonight?"

"That was one time – "

"And it wasn't okay and neither will be any other body parts, Sherlock. Just don't bring them here. Or buy another fridge for your room, for Christ's sake!" John pushes his chair back and jumps to his feet. "I'm gonna change."

xXx

**Wednesday - evening**

Growling at the slip of paper, Sherlock crosses out "Bond night" as well.

The word beneath it reads "jogging" but a glance at his phone's weather app confirms that the rain that has plagued the city for the past four days will persist at least until Sunday. Constant rain is a curiosity in London, so of course when it actually happens the weather chooses the worst time possible to act up. Sherlock doesn't have the means to change the weather, and John hates going for a run when it's raining…

Should he suggest John sign up for a gym? Somehow he doubts that would go over well. He has learnt from watching television that commenting on one's partner's level of fitness is a bit not good, as is any remark about the other's weight, for that matter. Seriously, who makes up all these ridiculous rules?

Groaning in exasperation, Sherlock brings his hand up to his face, framing his right cheek with his fingers.

He needs another tactic.

xXx

Sherlock doesn't fail. He can't – he is the most brilliant mind Great Britain has ever seen (no matter what Mycroft contends to the contrary) and he will not be thwarted by his boyfriend's bad mood.

He is at a complete loss, though. He tried everything.

He actually made John tea himself, which earned him a shocked expression and didn't lift John's mood one bit. Sherlock attempted massaging him, only to discover that his talents didn't extent to back rubs. Morning blowjobs, while usually very high on John's favourite things to do in bed, may have given John a few satisfying orgasms, yet unfortunately their effect was short-lived.

Sherlock cleared the kitchen of all remaining equipment he used for experiments, which John failed to notice.

Sherlock opened the door for John. He made sure to pick up his dirty underwear from the floor before it fell upon his partner to do it. He refrained from derogatory comments regarding John's blog.

All this time, John's mood seems to worsen rather than improve. It is a complete mystery.

On Saturday, Sherlock is so desperate that, when he notices they are running low on milk and eggs while John is sulking in the living room, Sherlock grabs his coat and wallet and heads out.

John always complains that Sherlock never bothers to tell him they are almost out of milk and John doesn't like tea without it. "You never do the shopping, the least you can do is tell me what we need," John would snap at him before leaving the flat.

In the Tesco around the corner Sherlock remembers why he never buys food. The supermarket is crowded and uncomfortable, too many people with too many too obvious secrets are hurrying down the aisle and the cashier is very obviously sleeping with the manager and can't wait for her shift to be over so she can return to her lover's office for another 'meeting'.

As expected, John looks up when Sherlock returns. When he glimpses the purchases, John is out of his chair in a heartbeat.

"You bought milk."

"And eggs."

"You went to the shop."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"We were almost out of milk. I remember someone throwing a tantrum the last time it happened when we didn't have a supply."

John gapes at him, apparently processing what is happening. If Sherlock is lucky, this will be the moment that John's lips curl into a genuine smile and he shucks the foul mood once and for all.

Instead John's eyes narrow to slits. "What's going on?"

Of course, lady luck has better things to do than be kind to Sherlock – it is almost as if she feels he hasn't suffered enough in this lifetime.

He raises an eyebrow and makes his way into the kitchen, aiming to put the shopping away, yet John follows him like an angry puppy.

"You've been acting strange all week! What's up with you?"

"Nothing's up with me, John."

"Then why're you doing the shopping? What's with the tea? That sorry excuse for a massage – never try that again, by the way. Hell, you even started cleaning up your sodding underwear! What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Sherlock snaps, hackles rising irrationally high. He better make his retreat before he flings something at John he will regret later. The emotional strain of the past week is finally catching up with him and Sherlock can't shut his brain up as it screams at him to just tell John, confront him, admit defeat and abandon the case since obviously nothing is working.

He escapes the kitchen and hurries down the hall into his bedroom, throwing the door shut behind him. Seconds later, it clicks open again – Sherlock spins around, surprised.

John is stepping into his bedroom. John has never been in this room.

Sherlock's blood runs cold. _Bloody hell. The notes._

But John is already staring at the wall behind Sherlock's shoulder, taking in the slips of paper, the picture, the crossed out options.

"What is this?" he asks, walking over to the wall.

Sherlock knows he can but sigh and tell the truth. "My current case."

"And why am I your current case?"

"Because of your irrational bad mood!" Sherlock explodes. "How long can it take to get over a patient dying? It's not the first time this has happened to you and you were fine after a day or two but it's been a week and I'm running out of ideas; nothing bloody works!"

"What patient?"

"You returned from your shift Monday morning. The lines around your eyes were hard, your shoelaces tied with more force than usually, suggesting frustration, you didn't want to talk about work, you ate beans for breakfast which you only do when you need a pick-me-up because they're more work, and you refused sex when I propositioned you. You lost a patient during your night shift. Obvious."

John's expression changes then until he looks at Sherlock like he always does after he explained his deductions. This hasn't changed over the years and every time it happens, Sherlock still isn't sure what he did to deserve such admiration.

This time, however, irritation mixes with the sentiment and it is gone completely after John shakes his head and runs a hand across his face.

"Sherlock, yes, I lost a patient but that's not why I'm in a mood."

"What? What did I miss?"

Did John mention something about visiting Harry? No, Sherlock would have remembered, that can't be it. Something to do with Mike? Another row with the Chip-and-PIN machine?

While Sherlock runs through possible options in his head, John moves about the room until he comes to a halt in front of the dresser, picking up Sherlock's mail from last week. Yes, he should throw that out, hasn't got around to it with his latest case –

John picks out one letter in particular and stalks past Sherlock to the wall, grabbing some Sellotape and fixing it to the tapestry.

Sherlock blinks at it.

It came in the mail last week, an invitation to his father's birthday dinner which he never attends. Mycroft will probably send a present from the both of them.

He turns towards John who has his arms crossed over his chest and is downright glaring at him.

"What?" Sherlock asks finally, not able to make the connection John is so apparently wanting him to.

"Oh, you just don't want to take me, do you? Is that it?"

"Take you where?"

"To the bloody dinner, Sherlock!" John snaps, uncrossing his arms.

"Why would I do that?"

Sherlock watches in fascination as John flexes his hand, taking a deep breath.

"Right. Because why would you take your boyfriend to your father's birthday dinner. I get it."

Before Sherlock's mind has caught up with what is happening, John has stormed past him, but Sherlock is hot on his heels. He faintly recalls leaving the invitation in the living room for a bit; John must have seen it then and like always drawn the completely wrong conclusions.

"I never go! Ask Mycroft!"

"You can't think I'm that daft, Sherlock! It's your father's 70th birthday!"

"So?"

This has John stop short, hand raised as if he were about to make a threatening gesture.

"You're joking."

"Usually you can tell when I'm joking."

John blinks, eyes gliding along Sherlock's body, though in a clinical way. He seems to be looking for clues if Sherlock is indeed telling the truth.

"You're telling me that you don't visit your parents for their birthdays? Not even their 70th?"

"I was forced to when I was still living under the same roof, however in my teenage years that, too, didn't pose a problem."

"And they still invite you?"

"People are stupid."

"Does Mycroft visit them?"

"He sends a card. Maybe flowers, I really don't care enough to ask."

"But I bet you he'll go this time."

"Why?" Sherlock asks, shaking his head slightly. This entire conversation is ridiculous.

"Your father is turning 70. That's kind of a big deal for most people."

"And the thought that I was going and didn't want you to come with me was enough to make you grumpy for a week?"

John swallows, averting his eyes. "Well, it seems stupid now. I don't know why I thought you'd go."

"Sometimes you still seem to confuse me with 'most people'," Sherlock muses with a smile, because, no matter how incomprehensible John's reaction to seeing the invitation is, Sherlock has found the key to solving the case.

"Apparently." At least there is the hint of a smile playing about John's mouth. _Prepare to find yourself genuinely smiling, Doctor Watson_, Sherlock thinks, smirking at his partner, who notices and looks at him questioningly.

"John," Sherlock begins, "would you like to accompany me to my father's birthday dinner this Sunday?"

John's perplexed expression is definitely worth a week of frustrated investigation. He blinks at Sherlock, the "Are you sure?" clearly written across his features.

"I wouldn't ask if I weren't serious."

And there is that genuine smile he was aiming for, lighting up John's entire face. "Yes, Sherlock, I would love to meet your parents."

With that, John steps closer, bringing a hand up to cup Sherlock's neck and pull him down so that John can claim his lips in a kiss. It starts out chaste, just a soft press of one mouth against the other, until Sherlock swipes his tongue over John's bottom lip, which opens the floodgates.

In a matter of seconds, John's strong hands are pulling at Sherlock's shirt, fingers working open buttons and continuing with his trousers while Sherlock mirrors his actions, desperate to touch skin.

They discard their clothes right there in the living room, toeing off shoes and removing socks at a speed that reminds Sherlock of his teenage years, only now he is twenty years older and together with the most wonderful man in existence who knows every inch of his body so well it should be illegal.

John twists Sherlock around and bends him over the back of John's chair. The edge of it is digging into Sherlock's stomach but the pain doesn't even register, not when familiar hands are drawing Sherlock's cheeks apart and a hot tongue traces the cleft of his arse.

Sherlock grips the cushions hard enough to turn his knuckles white as John's ministrations send shivers up his spine, his tongue mapping him out, soon joined by a finger that finds Sherlock's prostate at the first try.

"John," Sherlock moans, desperate and knowing fully well that John won't be able to resist him pleading – _begging_ – for long. The former soldier hums against Sherlock's skin, the sensation making Sherlock's cock twitch where it is pressed hot and heavy against the sofa's back.

"John," he tries again, "please."

Lips around his hole, kissing him. Then John is upright again, rubbing his erection against Sherlock's arse teasingly as he taps Sherlock's right arm.

Oh yes, lube. He sneaks his hand in the gap between the armrest and the pillow, feeling around for the small bottle they keep stashed here to avoid having to retrieve it from the bedroom or a drawer.

John makes quick work of preparing him, hands impatient and greedy and then he is sliding home, gripping Sherlock's hips.

It has been too long; too many days have passed since they did this properly, without the invisible wall of John's bad mood separating them and Sherlock throws his head back at the pleasure of it.

A moan rips from his throat when a hand closes around his cock, moving at counter-point to John's thrusts and Sherlock has no idea whether to push forward or back while holding onto the furniture underneath him as heat pools low in his stomach.

John bites Sherlock's shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, soothing the irritated skin with his tongue moments later before Sherlock feels sharp teeth sink into his skin once more. It's too much, John's cock inside him, his callused hand wrapped around his own erection and John's mouth on his body – Sherlock stumbles over the edge with a guttural moan.

John never breaks rhythm, not even as he pulls Sherlock, boneless and riding on the high of his orgasm, flush against his chest. John rolls his hips, thrusting deep and brushing Sherlock's prostate again drawing nothing more than a feeble twitch from Sherlock's cock.

John climaxes with his face buried in the crook of his neck, Sherlock's name on his lips.

It takes several minutes for them to recover, blissful seconds of mental silence that Sherlock almost – almost – likes better than the sex that precedes them. They have to disentangle eventually, John rushing to the bathroom for a washcloth to clean them up a little. No use showering – they both know round two is not far off.

"So, now you've solved the case," John wonders as he pulls Sherlock into his lap after sitting down on the sofa, "does that mean you'll stop tidying up after yourself again?"

"Probably."

"And you'll forget to mention we're low on milk."

"Very likely."

"No more holding doors open for me or making me tea?"

Sherlock smirks. John sounds woeful, yet they both know John has given up on trying to change Sherlock.

"But can we keep the morning blow job tradition?"

"I might be swayed if you agreed to return the favour…"

"Deal."

John kisses him then, slow and unhurried, and Sherlock presses closer. He is already dreading the upcoming Sunday, yet with John at his side, dinner with his parents might not even be that bad.

xXx

**End Notes:** I hope you enjoyed this little piece of fluff :) If you did, don't be shy – I live off air and comments!


End file.
